Aid
by Lynne the Canuck
Summary: Roger hasn't been feeling well, lately, and I don't want him to know how scared I am.  Mark's perspective.[One shot]


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DISCLAIMER: This is a work of original fan fiction based on characters and situations created by Jonathan Larson. The intent of this work is for the entertainment of the fans of the musical theatre work "Rent" and its 2005 movie adaptation, and is not intended to garner payment in any form.

I only rent. I don't own.

RATED: K+ (for one naughty word)

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**_Aid_**

_June 24__th__, 1993. Nine a.m., Eastern Daylight Time_.

Roger hasn't been feeling well for the last couple of days, and he asked me to accompany him to the free clinic down the street from our hovel. If this had been a year ago, I'd be pulling my hair out trying to get him out of the loft, let alone face his disease by going to a clinic.

He chose to go seek help on his own, and that has added to my list of encouraging changes in him in the past several months. I'm also glad that he asked me to go with him. HIV still scares him. Hell, it scares me. I hope I can help if this turn of events ends up being something that I know I don't want to hear, let alone how it will affect my best friend.

I hope I have enough strength left.

Despite how sick he is, Roger still managed to send an annoyed expression to my camera, as I grabbed it on the way out the door.

I'm glad that my decision not to pester him to go see a doctor paid off. I took a terrible chance; but his response to beautiful Mimi's death last January was much less self-destructive than it was after April's tragedy. In fact, I might actually call it a healthy sorrow, if there is such a thing.

I don't think that Roger's progress can solely be attributed to Collins' re-entry into the loft, not that Collins would want to take any sort of credit. Although, his presence has certainly helped and added a calming effect that I didn't realize was missing during his absence.

I feel sorry for Collins. He has that aura -- that radiating peace of spirit -- which everyone just clutches onto for survival. I don't want to add myself to that crowd of desperation; but it's getting to the point where I can't handle much more.

I'm so angry with myself for not having Collins' capabilities. I'm healthy, relatively speaking. Logically, our roles should be reversed. I don't understand how he does it.

Perhaps, that is why I will need him to lean on. I'm aware that he's already seen that need in me.

I wish I could find that inner peace for myself.

Roger meets me outside the clinic, stuffing three or four prescription scripts in his jeans pocket. At his expression, I turn off my camera.

"The AZT wasn't working anymore," he tells me, flatly. "My body got use to it after a year and a half of taking it; so, I have to start taking some new stuff twice a day, and an antibiotic for the cough and fever.

"I'll have so many drugs in me now, that the heroin will seem like aspirin."

It annoys me that I can't keep my emotions from surfacing to the point that a five-year-old can read me. "Relax," he sighs. "It was only a joke."

I pause for a moment, anxious about what he has not told me. There is more, and it is so hard to stop myself from grabbing his head and shaking it, trying to empty all the information I need to prepare myself.

I don't want to be selfish, but I'm just so sick of losing people I care about. How much am I suppose to take, before I go insane?

He forces a smile in reaction to what must be written on my face. "No, it's not pneumonia, but I'm suppose to go for a blood test to check my lymphocyte count," he continued, and moved his gaze to the clear sky. "If it's less than 200, she said that I can't go around saying I'm just HIV positive anymore."

"Oh, God. Roger—"

"Yeah, I'll have full blown AIDS."

We stand there, outside the clinic, while the people and traffic continue on, ignorantly. I want to memorize this moment, to be able to see it again when I need to reference it.

He's not prone on a hospital bed. My best friend is not caricature of himself that mockingly lies in a fucking coffin.

Roger is here, now, reassuringly giving my shoulder a gentle pat and often glancing at me as we walk together toward the laboratory – toward a turning point for both of us.

_The tears dry, without you.  
Life goes on, but I'm gone. _

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c)2007, by: Lynne Freels

For more information about the phenomena of HIV/AIDS therapy intolerance, visit:

http://www.niaid.nih.gov/publications/hivaids/23.htm


End file.
